“Detective Sanschagrin,” exaggerated exuberance in his tone, Milly rose from his desk and strode around to greet him, arm extended to shake hands.
“You are a busy man so I will keep you no longer than need be,” giving the standard police code for ‘you’d better cooperate or I’ll haul your ass downtown’.
Having assured Milly that he would be expeditious in his inquiries, he at once undertook a leisurely stroll around Milly’s gargantuan office, stopping at each of the many medieval artifacts, largely weaponry. Had anyone else dared to run their fingers over his precious collection, they would rather quickly have been devoured by Milly’s wrath, but Sanschagrin was different. He could fully and fearlessly choose to annoy even the most prominent citizens, from political figures through captains of industry all the way to men and women of the cloth. Sanschagrin, believing himself to be a man of the stoutest integrity, knew he would never do so gratuitously but only in the service of pursuing, apprehending and, with God’s help, ultimately incarcerating guilty men and women. Milly, of course, knew all this and so very wisely kept his counsel.
“What does Abelard Bush do here?” Sanschagrin suddenly spoke, turning on his heels to face Milly, nearly knocking over a delicate Chinese vase, awkwardly out of place among the middle ages killing paraphernalia.
“He is easily one of our very best. Indeed, if I can trust to your discretion,” seeking to seduce Sanschagrin by making him an insider, worthy of confidence, “Abelard would definitely be in any horse race to succeed me if I would choose to step down.”
“How long have you known him,” he continued, choosing to ignore Milly’s cheap attempt to buy his favour.
“He’s been here for almost one year now, but my niece, in whose judgment I take but the greatest comfort, has known Abelard for more than four and intends to soon wed him.”
“What do you know about his past? Has he ever been in trouble with the law?”
“Shakespeare, our security chief, would have done a thorough background check and brought any oddities to my attention. As far as I recall, there were none.” Milly was by now fairly certain that there were all sorts of oddities crawling about Abelard’s thin past. He would spare no effort to uncover the delectable ones and put them to the finest scrutiny money could buy. The detective would have to make do with his own resources, from Milly there would be no serious help forthcoming. He and Sanschagrin trotted around each other for another twenty minutes or so, much of the time Milly recounting the fateful events.
Men in Milly’s position felt themselves Legibus Solutus, unconstrained by the law. They controlled vast resources, nominally subject to close scrutiny by a plethora of rules and regulations, but they saw their own success as a divine message that they were somehow better, above the fray. They didn’t realize that their brains were about the same size as everyone else’s, only that they misfired a lot into the vacuum where the bits and pieces that constrain most people’s proclivity to satisfy extreme self-interest had gone missing.
“Would it be too much to ask to have Mr. Bush join us?” Sanschagrin inquired, his dull, average voice breaking the short silence.
Milly considered, but only for a moment, using his standard code to alert his secretary that what he was asking for he really did not want, but thought the better of it. He would rather listen to Abelard’s responses than have to fret about them later. He strode purposefully to the door, shunning the intercom, and asked his secretary to summon Abelard.
Abelard had reckoned Sanschagrin would want to also speak with him and mulled the merits of disconnecting himself from the network, to render himself incommunicado. Too much trouble; smash mobile phone; snip connection to desk phone; cut public address system wiring; drop laptop onto hard tiled floor; immobilize secretary; burn down building. It was really almost impossible to easily drop out of sight and sound. Besides, the fawning, uber suspicious Sanschagrin would probably launch a manhunt if he didn’t show up. Not to mention, of course, the boundless rage into which Milly would fly and the resources he would muster, in cahoots with Shakespeare, to search far and wide, not omitting a single stone, until he was found.
Sanschagrin was still simulating an enjoyable smoke with his unlit cigarette in a strictly non-smoking environment when broadly grinning Abelard strode in. A naturally morose person, Abelard’s evident good cheer did nothing to alleviate his oppressive dourness. Inexplicably, he had imagined the suspected sociopath would slither into the room with guilt and panic etched across his resentfully handsome features. Disconcerted by Abelard’s demeanor, he stubbed out his cold smoke and frowned at having just wasted a perfectly good and now quite expensive product.
“Detective Sanschagrin,” Abelard enthused, arm snapped into handshake mode, “why am I not surprised to see you?”
“No less surprised than I am to see you,” he answered, choosing not to shake the unnaturally steady hand. “The dead, the almost dead and the soon to be dead seem to have your number, Mr. Bush. As for me, I just follow the rules. The computer tells the dispatcher that I have already had contact with you and it dispassionately puts me on the case.”
Sanschagrin walked around behind Abelard towards the more informal sofa arrangement in the far corner of the vast office. He dropped himself, far too heavily, onto the firm leather Cayman chair. Even while mentally wincing at the injury to his vestigial tail, he swept his arm over the sofa, inviting Abelard and Milly to join him.
“Mr. Bush,” Sanschagrin began, his head drooping off his longish neck, intently peering at a single sheet of slightly crumpled paper, which he had removed from his jacket pocket and meticulously unfolded. “A baby yet unborn might have a longer history than you. There is so pathetically little that one page is apparently far more than sufficient to cover your entire personal background, from birth to the present. My colleagues in France kindly offered to make some inquiries about you and your family in Pau, which is listed as the place of your birth. Conveniently, it seems, the Jesuit orphanage, where you had lived as a child, had been torn down some time ago. All records were inadvertently destroyed making it impossible to contact any former residents. The military would only say that an Abelard Bush had done his service. Is there something, even of the smallest importance that we are all missing? Could you enlighten me as to why you barely seem to exist?” Here Milly perked up, hoping to also learn a little more about his future nephew-in-law.
To Sanschagrin, Abelard’s trademark wide gage, indomitable grin, was like a sharp object jabbing painfully at his own bottomless pessimism. He knew that the good nature was all a deliberate sham, which only increased his natural antagonism for this criminal. He wished very hard that something would emerge, anything, even an unpaid speeding ticket, to give him the justification he needed to sit on this self-assured dandy.
“That is a little sad,” Abelard began, now looking at the thin, very tightly woven Persian rug beneath their feet, a noticeable frown in place of the smile, “but not very surprising. I don’t know how much background your colleagues had when they made their inquiries, but orphanages, I can tell you, are very unpleasant places. Memorable would not be my choice of words to describe a stay at a Jesuit institution. What would a poor, orphaned wretch want to recall; little food, beatings, loneliness, abusive men in black? It would have made no difference had you been able to locate former residents; they would have remembered only their own struggle to survive, not that of another hapless orphan,” Abelard concluded, dabbing at the corner of his eye, as though holding back an ocean of tears.
Abelard had been loathe to pay the extra money for the more bullet proof background but Felicity, being more sensible, had argued for the deluxe fabrication. It had been a good decision and now it also had a good outcome. Sanschagrin was clearly nonplussed by Abelard’s magisterial performance. He had ignored the bit at the bottom of his fact sheet about the fire, that led to the orphanage’s demolition, being suspicious, possibly set by a disaffected resident of the notorious institution, and other normally useless tri
via. His eyes now fretfully imbibed the unwelcome data. He fell, like the bested hunter, from the heights of sweet triumph to the despair of self-pity. An audible sigh escaped from frustrated lips as he absorbed his complete defeat.
“It appears you have been bullet proofed, Mr. Bush. No matter, I will just have to look harder. You see, Mr. Bush, six dead people, and those are only the ones I know about, all have you in common.” Abelard was relieved that Sanschagrin would never hear of either the Malvue boys’ fiery demise or the two Society assassins he had dispatched very early on in his new existence.
“Detective Sanschagrin,” Milly suddenly stood up and growled, “you seem convinced that Abelard has done something wrong. This will not do. If you have an accusation to make, do so. Otherwise, you must stop casting about with innuendo and veiled threats. If we are done, my secretary will show you out and the next time you wish to speak with Abelard our lawyer will be right beside him.”
Sanschagrin was not alone in his surprise at the abruptness and vigour of Milly’s support for his Senior Vice President. Abelard, normally poised and unflappable, hesitantly turned his head to openly stare at Milly. Ever mindful of treachery and hidden snares, he was this time utterly unprepared and could make no immediate sense of Milly’s seemingly unequivocal support. He would very soon recover his natural pessimism.
Sanschagrin, bewildered and now doubly wary, quickly jumped to his feet, left hand holding right firmly, as though to prevent it saluting a chagrined commander. “You are quite right Mr. Lord, a lawyer for Mr. Bush would be appropriate,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to modulate the anger and confusion out of his voice, at the same time hoping to save his dignity with a final veiled intimidation. He then turned towards the door, where Milly’s secretary was waiting to escort him out. He hesitated a moment, tempted to leave a parting shot but thought better of it and left in silence.
*
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 48